


Knowing Me, Knowing You

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 16:16:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5340422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gary gets a text at 2pm, <i>Grab a pint?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Knowing Me, Knowing You

**Author's Note:**

> i listened to ABBA too much and im ( _god fucking damn it_ ) so worried and FOND of GARY NEVILLE

 

 

 

Gary gets a text at 2pm, _Grab a pint?_

He stares at it for a bit, the name on the phone ( _Jamie Carragher_ , spelled out exactly like that, and if Gary had known his middle name he’d have written that too, anything to keep up a front of professionalism), the three innocent words, the time ticking to 2:04 as he kept staring.

 

Then he sighs and types _Okay_ , because, after all. Spain.

 

-

 

There’s no one in the bar because no one drinks at that time of the evening unless they’re an alcoholic. There wasn’t even anyone having a late lunch. Everything’s quiet to the point of stifling, and the bartender’s gone off to the backroom to nap, yawning after plunking down their drinks. Gary shifts on his chair, antsy. Jamie’s getting cheerfully drunk.

“Cheers?” Jamie says, raising his beer.

“It’s fucking three in the evening,” Gary says.

Jamie raises an eyebrow. “And what, you’ve got somewhere pressing to be?”

“No. I wouldn’t be here if I did.”

Jamie puts down his beer, props an elbow on the table and stares at him, shrewdly.

“Really?”

Gary rolls his eyes and gives up. He sips the beer, which wasn’t cold and tasted kind of flat. “Really.”

Jamie’s grinning but lets it go.

 

“So why did you come?” Jamie says. They’re done with the beer and the bartender doesn’t look like he’s coming back anytime soon, so they’ve moved on to the closest bottle of alcohol Jamie can reach without having to flip over the counter. Gin. Gary makes a face and downs a shot.  

“Why did you ask me?” he shoots back.

Jamie shrugs. “I’ve been trying to get you to go for drinks for ages.”

Gary blinks. “What, really?”

“Yeah, mate, _really_.”

Gary looks away from his stupid scouse face, something twisting in his stomach. Probably the alcohol. He taps his fingers on the table, trying to figure it out. Surely it wasn’t- probably it wasn’t, right. Why had he agreed to meet Carragher? He had things to do, obviously. Phil alone had sent about 10 messages and 2 emails, not to mention everyone he’s ever known had wanted to congratulate him or meet up or grab a drink. Even Becks had sent a text - _Spain? Wrong club but nice one gaz. good luck :)_ And that one made him smile a bit, the reality hitting home precisely at the end parentheses of his text. Everything had happened very fast- not that he hadn’t known, not that he hadn’t been precisely gunning for this exact outcome, but to have it _happen_ at last. The first heady burst of satisfaction was wearing off a little, and now Gary just feels slightly off kilter.

Jamie’s looking at him with an eyebrow raised, and Gary blurts, “Did you- were you trying to-”

“What?”

“A date? Trying to get me on a date?”

Jamie stares at him, eyes wide. “What?”

“You know,” Gary attempts. He takes another shot, more out of sheer apprehension than anything else. “Grabbing a pint. All those late nights over at mine, playing FIFA. Did you ever-”

“No,” Jamie says, raising both hands. “ _God_ , no.”

“Oh.Thank God,” Gary says, and absolutely means it. Thank God and thank Sir Alex and he was going to fucking church starting in Spain, probably, he’ll make Phil go with him, because he was so goddamn _grateful_ about everything right this second it felt like United winning on an extra time goal, like a weight lifted off his fucking shoulders, right, because there was _no way_ Jamie Carragher had wanted to go on a date or anything remotely to do with that, and shit, he might actually have to give the man a little more cred-

Then Carragher, like the stupid fucking scouser he is, ruins everything by leaning in and kissing him.

 

-

 

He pulls back almost immediately, and their eyes meet. Gary thinks, _It’s not a fucking slippery slope at all. It’s a fucking banana peel in the middle of the road._ It lasts only three seconds before Gary looks away, but in those three seconds he has Jamie Carragher’s face blazed in his mind. His expression, halfway between serious and amused, eyes wide like he was waiting for Gary to get the joke he’d just told at Gary’s expense, but also- the curve of his mouth betraying the fact that he hadn’t told a joke at all. If it was a joke, then, it was at both their expenses.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” Gary says furiously to the bottle of Tanqueray.

Jamie bursts out laughing, loud guffaws that made Gary look at him, annoyed and -just, annoyed.

“The-look- on y’r face,” Jamie chokes out. He was burying his face in the crook of his elbow, voice muffled, shoulders shaking.

“You fucking wanker,” Gary says faintly, still hoping it’s a joke. _Please God tell me it’s a joke._

 

Jamie lifts his head and it feels like getting punched in the gut, because it clearly wasn’t. Jamie’s still smiling a little, but his eyes were terrifyingly serious.

“So,” he says, setting his shot glass down on the table.

“So,” Gary echos. There was no way to proceed from here. There should be a goddamn handbook for this, _101 Things To Do After Finding Out You’re In Love With Your Old Archenemy Turned Coworker._ Come to think of it, if he had to write that handbook, the first thing would probably be _Move to Spain_.

Gary snorts out loud, unable to help himself. Well, he’s always been ahead of the game.

“What’s funny?” Jamie says, frowning a little. His forehead wrinkled and he looked like a perplexed bulldog. Gary wanted to kiss him again.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Liverpool,” he adds, just because he could.

Jamie rolls his eyes. “Nice one, Neville.” And then he groans and buries his face in his hands. “Shit, we’re playing right now.”

“Southampton,” Gary says, scrolling through his phone to confirm. “Three one, not bad.”

“Liverpool three?”

Gary nods. Jamie grins, wide, and Gary feels something akin to affection, and then something that was definitely disgust. Except directed at himself, rather than Carragher.

“So last monday was our last time, huh.”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, “You’re really breaking my heart.”

“Fuck off. Gonna miss me?”

“I’m _gutted_ ,” Jamie says, rolling his eyes and clutching his chest. “Don’t worry. Whenever I miss you I’ll put on that analysis you did of the City match.”

“You recorded it?” Gary says, laughing a little despite himself. Fucking typical.

“Liverpool are scintillating! Absolutely stunning play!” Jamie mimics, waving his arms wildly.

“Wank to it,” Gary says, grinning.

 

There’s an awkward little silence at the end of his sentence that made Gary want to take it back. Jamie’s staring at him, not smiling at all. He leans closer, and Gary wants badly to shrink away, but he doesn’t. _Fuck you,_ he thinks furiously, terrified, angry at being terrified.

Jamie’s close enough to kiss, so Gary goes for it this time, because he’ll be damned if they’re stuck in some sort of maudlin goodbye scenario and he’s not going to be _torn up_ about it, God no. Not like how Becks left him for Madrid, at all, because he’d grown up with Becks and they’d had everything in common and well, Carragher was a scouse bastard from Liverpool.

It made it worse, actually, that train of thought. Their cultivated not-quite friendliness in the two and a half years at Sky Sports and the inevitable end of it, because Carragher wasn’t like Scholesy or Giggsy or Becks, tied to Gary through their shared life, through their shared club, their ties unbroken come whatever distance or time or other obstacle.  

Two and a half years of fragility, and Jamie’s in front of him now, smiling a little with his shirt collar loose, so Gary kisses him.

 

-

 

“If you leave now you can catch the second half of the game,” Gary says.

“I could. Or we could go to mine, and we won’t watch the game. Promise,” Jamie says.

Gary raises an eyebrow. “Not watching Liverpool to fuck a Manc?” he says, voice not as steady as he hoped.

Jamie shrugs. “I like being charitable.”

“Fuck you,” Gary laughs.

“You could,” Jamie says. Gary thinks, _Fuck._

“Alright,” he says, standing up and pulling on his coat. “Call a fucking cab.”

 

-

 

Later he asks, Jamie half asleep and sprawled out on his right. “What’s your middle name?”

Jamie slurs something unintelligible and flops an arm over his middle.

“Getting a little round, Neville,” Jamie says.

Gary rolls his eyes, giving up. “Alright. Don’t tell me.”

He changes _Jamie Carragher_ to _Carra_ before he falls asleep, knowing that changes nothing and everything, knowing everything in his life right now is up in the air and nothing’s safe or predictable but well, there’s an abundance of new challenges and he’s fucking _ready_. Gary smiles a little, knowing that.  

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> me: *adds Valencia to my espn favorites with a dawning sense of despair* how did i get to this point? why am i so fond of man utd legend gary neville? what if he gets crushed in the cutthroat atmosphere of la liga coaching? is Carra ok? am i ok? do i need a drink? does Gary need a drink? how's Phil feeling? ...Are you there God? It's me, Sharon. 
> 
>  
> 
> thank you for reading, find me on [tumblr](http://mesutings.tumblr.com/) for more existential despair about Mancs, ft Carra


End file.
